That Time
by Smidy
Summary: She sighed. "Ok, um, it's that time. You know, That. Time?" Nonplussed, he checked his watch. "Amy, it's 2.43pm. What possible significance could that – "


_AN: Yeah, I don't know. I had a Doctor Who marathon with 3 of my mates and, therefore, I had to neglect my legal homework and write something. Anything. This is it apparently. Oh, and in case anyone was interested, the, uh, event, with the man on the houseboat ACTUALLY happened. THAT was an interesting Easter._

* * *

Amy stalked into the TARDIS' library in a flurry of a befuddling conglomeration of distracted purpose and concentrated frustration and, with a pronounced sigh, slumped into the armchair opposite the Doctor.

She punctuated the ensuing silence with several more huffs of despair, often coupling them with small, violent movements and dark, fierce mutterings. She mercilessly prodded his shin with her toes, whistled piercingly and was overcome with a violent coughing fit, before sitting back, crossing her arms over her chest and leveling a searing glare in his direction.

His keen sense of the human condition suggested that, _possibly_, these were all mechanisms to gain his attention.

Something, mused the Doctor, was obviously amiss.

Thus, in the interest of maintaining the pleasant equilibrium of their companionship and, most probably, the pleasant equilibrium of the entire Universe, he determined that he must investigate.

He glanced up from _Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows_, a box of tissues at his elbow (he had learnt from previous experiences), and grudgingly left Harry flailing under the gaze of a certain ginger in a certain, packed Room of Requirement, to suffer under one of his own.

"Yes, Pond?" he murmured, leisurely scratching his nose.

"Chocolate." she said, her lips pursing in an attempt to remain calm.

"Pardon?"

"I. Want. Chocolate. Now." she enunciated, a hybrid of a forced pleasant smile and a grimace contorting itself across her face. She blinked furiously, "I have spent the past half an hour practically _ransacking_ the TARDIS fridge and the TARDIS cupboard and the TARDIS freezer and the TARDIS bomb shelter and the TARDIS Emergency Store Of Sustenance _and_ the TARDIS' own Tesco and _NONE_ of them have chocolate."

She was positively frantic now, whizzing about the room and gesticulating so wildly, the Doctor was beginning to fear for the maintained attachment of her limbs.

"I mean, _really_, chocolate right? It's like - like a major food group in and of itself! It's so nice and tasty and – and, uh, I mean, people use it all the time! My aunt used to make chocolate cake, and Rory's grandma dipped strawberries in chocolate and they always sell chocolate flavoured things like milkshakes and ice cream and uh, things from, you know, _adult_ shops. Actually, one time…" she faltered, looking thoughtful. "_Anyway, _I'd even go so far as to say that it's necessary for the furthering of the human race, for, like, the survival of our species!"

She gasped, "What if I was a diabetic, huh? Yeah! And, like, I uh, I needed a sugar hit, like, say, I don't know, _chocolate_, and then I _died_ because this stupid bloody rubbish spaceship-"

"_Why_, Pond," the Doctor interjected, managing, _somehow_, to successfully place his hands on her shoulders, "is it so drastically important, at this _precise _moment, that you find these silly little brown squares of potential obesity? Just last week we visited that planet that was dedicated to the reproduction of Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory, _surely_, any further over indulgence in sugar would warrant a visit to the Dentist, correct? And Dentists are mean and horrible and frightful, correct? Unless, of course you happen to be fond of them – but that would be just plain ridiculous because I've heard horror stories about them and all their massive whizzy drills and the scrapers and their axes and their evil rotating wheels of death and – wait, no, that was _Saw IV_. Hmm. Forget the wheel of death."

She blushed and inhaled awkwardly. "Well, it's, uh, _you know_." she said, raising her eyebrows and nodding slowly.

The Doctor stared blankly.

She sighed. "Ok, um, it's _that time_. You know, _That. Time_?"

Nonplussed, he checked his watch. "Amy, it's 2.43pm. What _possible_ significance could that – "

"No!" she exclaimed disbelievingly. The man was _unfathomable_. "It's _that time of the month_. Get it?"

"Uh, 26th of October?"

"NO!"

"Nearly Halloween?"

She glared at him. "For _girls_."

He shook his head fondly and chuckled. "No Pond, Thursdays are only "Interplanetary Women's Day" in the Sion XIX galaxy. As we are not within the bounds of that galaxy at the present time, any celebration in relation to it would be classed as an intergalactic felony and punitive karaoke performances really don't appeal – "

She exploded.

"Oh for God's sake! I have my period, ok? You know, the joys of having a uterus and all."

The effect was instantaneous.

The Doctor wrenched his hands off of her shoulders as if they'd been scalded, wiping them furiously on his trousers and turning a deep shade of mortified red. He coughed, cleared his throat, said "Right then," and turning away, walked with apparent purpose into a vast bookcase.

Amy snorted in a most decidedly un-ladylike manner.

He cleared his throat again, addressing her whilst staring determinedly at an unremarkable square of carpet a few metres to the left of her feet. "And chocolate, this will, uh, this will _assuage_ It, I assume?"

She grinned, suddenly feeling indescribably better. "Oh yes," she assured him, "I find, from past experiences, that it always lightens my mood, dulls the pain, you know. " He looked queasy and began to edge towards the door.

She pressed on, "Really, though, you can't expect this to happen if we just nick off down the shops or something. How am I supposed to face the torture of wearing a tampon with crappy old chocolate like that? It's just not possible," she called as he sprinted for the door. "You never know, - it could just aggravate the problem."

Upon hearing this, he paled, fear clouding his face as if she had just nonchalantly alerted him that 1 million Daleks had invaded his bedroom or the excess energy from the Universe had erased the existence of bow ties.

So, in order to be completely safe, he took her to Easter.

* * *

The Doctor had never travelled with such a precarious case before, at least none that he'd known of (except Mickey, of course), and he was quite at a loss as to how to proceed.

He felt like a prisoner of Amy's menstrual cycle, being dragged about in iron chains of awkwardness and prohibited from breathing the fresh air of normalcy, surviving only on sparse rations of brief smiles and the increased censoring of such a terrifying subject.

He was a captive of her mood swings, a convict, sent to the wild, unknown Land of Death Stares for any slight wrongdoing, often faced with the threat of never returning to his beautiful homeland of Amy's Good Side.

Thus, he decided to continue with the theme – an Australian Easter it was.

* * *

Things had gone fantastically, the TARDIS landing on the day of Easter 2009, near what appeared to be a relatively comfortable campsite on the banks of a big, brown river.

Both the Doctor and Amy had partaken in a ridiculously gigantic Easter Egg Hunt, Amy darting around almost _too_ enthusiastically, jealously collecting her hoard of chocolate, whilst the Doctor trailed behind her, critiquing her searching tactics and blathering on about the Quantum Mathematical Theorem Behind Easter Egg Placement ("No, Amy! Trust me, according to my calculations, your success would almost quadruple if you were to look in the wheels and on the bullbars of cars and in shoes outside of caravans. I _know_ these things!").

Later, they gorged themselves on hot cross buns and, licking butter off of his fingers, the Doctor recounted the history of the Easter Bunny. For it, apparently, was alien too.

All in all, the Doctor was immensely pleased with himself, having successfully contented Amy's 'lady-storm', and, equipped only with his dazzling charm and wit, had restored her to her normal, mostly friendly, definitely-not-always-cross self.

Now all that was left was to herd her back onto the TARDIS calmly and carefully and pleasantly, steering quite clear of any possibly incendiary situations and preserving Pond's thankfully serene demeanor.

He scoffed.

Easy as proving why electrons have mass.

* * *

They were not 5 metres away from the haven of the TARDIS' doors when the Doctor heard a man yelling on a houseboat downriver.

He was torn for a total of 3 seconds. Then his curiosity forcibly told his reason to shut up, so he stood, patiently, and waited.

Suddenly, the houseboat rounded the bend in the river and through the willows, the Doctor identified the man from which the infernal racket was protruding.

Later, in the library once more, reading, for the second time, about Harry's heart-wrenching, stupendously selfless and mind-numbingly heroic self sacrifice for the Order and for the good of all of those in the magical world (which now seemed considerably _less_ so seeing as he knew what happened after), the Doctor reflected on the wonder of hind-sight.

Really, if he had had any semblance of an idea about what had happened next in his own life, whilst placating his curiosity on the riverbank, he would have sacrificed almost anything, even perhaps face He Who Must Not Be Named _himself_ in order to have Not. Been. There.

He really quite severely disliked his curiosity sometimes.

For, as the houseboat began to pass directly by where Amy and the Doctor were standing, the Doctor remembered he was in Australia, on a public holiday, with individuals who had access to eskies and ice and alcohol, and what exactly that _meant_.

The man, obviously considerably intoxicated, was standing on the second floor of the houseboat, stout legs sticking out of his shorts, hair sprouting from his chest and a beer in his beefy left hand. Worse still, was that he appeared to be attempting to communicate with them, admittedly focusing on Amy's short skirt, his already harsh accent sullied further by slurring and sudden guffaws of laughter.

His message however, was unfortunately clear.

And volatile.

And potentially able to corrupt Amy's content, pleasant feelings and 'aggravate' It.

Extremely Very Not Good.

The man's pants were half way down his thighs and, with his right hand, pointed to _that area_ and to _that thing _in_ that area_, wiggling his hips and shouting, "Look at this! Look at this!"

The Doctor was mortified. He had forgotten what, uh, _tendencies_ this particular species of human had when drinking. They were brilliant, truly. Hard working, loyal, cheeky and strong – always generous with everything they owned and the inventors of perhaps the most delectable dessert in the Universe - little chocolate fish-finger looking cakes called Lamingtons.

Australians were normally cool, however, presently, he detested them.

The man wiggled.

The Doctor cringed.

Amy grinned.

"Look! Look at this!" the man continued to crow, now doing jazz-fingers to maintain their attention on _that place_.

With mock seriousness, Amy leant forward and brought a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. She squinted earnestly for a few seconds, then shook her head, now smirking wickedly, and called back, "What? I can't see anything!"

The Doctor tittered. Then snorted. Then chuckled. Then collapsed, red dust imprinting itself onto his shirt as he rolled around in glee, great resounding laughs wracking his body.

The man on the houseboat faltered, inhaled sharply and then meekly pulled his pants back up.

Perhaps, pondered the Doctor, ignoring the pain in his aching ribs, this '_time of the month'_ business wasn't too bad.

Entertaining, certainly.

He began to imagine Amy meeting Daleks or Cybermen in her current state, or even seeing River Song again, able to rip fantastically into her with a zinger like that if she _dared_ to smugly utter the phrase, "Spoilers!" ever again.

But then, fatigued from her glorious victory, Amy grumbled.

The golden light was evaporating.

She dragged the Doctor roughly off the ground.

"Hot chips." she said.

And the Doctor sighed.


End file.
